


swimming story

by viscrael



Category: Original Work
Genre: ???? idk what this is, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Male Homosexuality, Nonbinary Character, Poetry, Sexism, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscrael/pseuds/viscrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cruelty is...</p>
            </blockquote>





	swimming story

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote a shitty poem thing abt different stuff and watned to post it somewhere but ive never posted anything but ff on here so idek if this is the correct way to go abt this oops oh well

Cruelty is a girl with a house. She sleeps in a cold bed sheets

And warms herself with ghosted memory, and adults say such

Nice things about her: you’ll do so well, you’re such a good girl,

Boys will be lucky to have you, have you started thinking about

College yet? On and on and on, little chatter box noises in the

Back of her head, asking asking asking, as she curls deeper into

Her drunk-soaked bedsheet, every night as she begins to drift farther

Into sleep. How many feet will you grow? How many children?

Are you going to have children? What’s your husband going to be

Like? Oh, you’ll be young, won’t you, someone will snatch you right

Up. Your parents are so lucky to have you. You’re such a good girl.

You’re so quiet. Why don’t you talk more? Oh, no, don’t talk so much,

Boys don’t like girls who talk so much, girls are quiet, girls are quiet,

Quiet, quiet, quiet, don’t speak out of line, be a good little girl, don’t

You know that bad little girls go to hell? Sit straight. Don’t talk so much.

 

Cruelty is a boy with a convertible. He’s not a good driver, but his

Father insisted that he get a car of his own when he turned sixteen, and

There were so many other teenagers who would kill for that chance, he

Was so lucky to have parents as generous as them, to have a dad as great

As his. Never mind he didn’t listen. Never mind he didn’t believe him.

Never mind that the boy spoke too loud to drown out the white noise

In his head and never lifted his tongue about something important once in

His life (not because he didn’t want to, but because he wasn’t allowed, he

Was a boy, boys aren’t supposed to feel that way, boys aren’t supposed to

Care so much, cry so much, boys are supposed to chase after the girl and

Drive convertibles and get in wrecks and break up. Boys kissed girls and

Boys stayed loud; boys didn’t care and boys never cried. Boys boys boys

Boys boys boys, but god forbid he feel like _that_. Anything but that. Lord

Give his father anything but that, anything but that, and he was a failure).

 

Cruelty is someone who is neither, sitting on a desk. They wear a dress

But their mother still thinks they fit one or the other; pink for the girls,

Blue for the boys, and yellow for the indecisive. You’ll figure it out some

Day, dear, says their mother, gentle, condescending, you’re a boy, after all,

On the outside, aren’t you? No, they think, picking at the rotted wood of

Their desk, I am not a boy, but I am not a girl either, and they know this is

Taboo, this is _bad_ , this is unsightly and sinful and wrong wrong wrong

Wrong wrong wrong wrong. But there is a glow in their chest when some

One gets it right, when someone pauses before deciding on “ma’am” and

“Sir” and chooses neither. This isn’t wrong, they think, smoothing down

Their skirt, yellow. People will tell me I’m not real, and people will tell me

I’ll settle down eventually, but this is not wrong, and I am not wrong. How

Could something that feels so right be _wrong_? Their mother shakes her head

With a _tsk_. You’ll understand someday, she says, but they don’t think they will.

  


Cruelty is the river each of the three confess their sins to, please, please

Don’t tell anyone my secret. The girl takes her blankets and her cold bed

Sheets, don’t tell my parents I don’t want to get married, don’t tell my parents

I don’t think I’ll go to college, don’t tell them I’m a disappointment, don’t tell

Them that I don’t like this, this, this. I don’t want my life planned out. I’m a girl,

But I’m not a doll. I’m a human being. Don’t tell them this, please, please.

The boy crashes his car on the way and falls in a heap on the river bank,

Wrapped in piano strings and the blood that froze over in his veins just

Moments ago. Don’t tell my dad I’m not ready for this much responsibility,

Don’t tell my dad I’m in love with the boy down the street, don’t tell him I’ve

Kissed my best friend, don’t tell him I cry when he’s not looking (which is

Most of the time) and don’t tell him I’m not the son he wants. Don’t tell him

I have nightmares of him finding out and beating me. Don’t tell him that I’m

A failure of a son, he might as well never had me. Don’t tell him this, please, please.

The indecisive comes dressed in yellow and falls with splinters in their feet,

Cloth wrapped in clenched fists, bloodied with nails digging in rough, scared

Palms. Don’t tell my mom I’m not going through a phase. Don’t tell my mom

I’m this way forever, don’t her I’ve been this way since I was a little child,

Don’t tell her she didn’t get the son she wanted, don’t tell her she didn’t get

A son at all, don’t tell her it’s not for attention. Don’t tell her my hands shake

When I get called on in class, don’t tell her my voice wavers even more when

I speak to strangers, waiting for the wrong words, _she_ or _he_ depending on the

Day, always out of luck no matter which poison they choose, and don’t tell

Her neither of those work. Don’t tell her this, please, please.

 

The river does not respond, but it keeps these sins locked in itself anyway.

 


End file.
